


All Streams Flow Into the Sea

by limerental



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bladder Control, Bodily Fluids, Desperation, Dubious Consent, M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 16:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: The lips so close to his ear he can almost see the blue that will smear there if they touch.I want you to drink and drink deeply, darling. As if you're parched and aching for water. Oh, you ever felt that? You ever felt thirst? I hear it's exciting. And then,the voice hums, a vibration that he feels in the shell of his ear, across his whole scalp.I want you to wait.





	All Streams Flow Into the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want the first thing published on my ao3 account to be weird porn but here we are. Yes, you read the tags right, though there is no strong focus on the actual bodily fluids in this fic, so no worries if that squicks you.

Loki struggles. His magic hisses down his forearms in green pulses, verging on out of control. His face doesn't show any of it beyond the odd twitch, but to the anyone looking closely, it's certainly clear that something is up. His jaw is tense, his eyes dart to the exits more than they should, and he tries to keep very still. Even breathing sends little spasming shocks down his body, and he clamps down, willing his magic to ease it, willing his body not to betray him.

The banquet has seemed to drown on and on as they always do, but this one feels centuries longer and it is not so easy to put on a jovial face like he usually does. He is sure to make the rounds at these parties, chatting up all the right people, sending his feelers out, sharing a drink here, a few choice bits of intel there. At the end of each night, he has a few more pieces of the puzzle to hoard away and worry like a missing tooth, poking and prodding until a way off this stinking planet will shimmer into existence just the way he planned.

But tonight, oh-

“Now darling,” the Grandmaster had said in that sugary tone of voice he always took right before suggesting something utterly ridiculous and utterly dangerous to refuse. He leaned close to quickly whisper the suggestion, hot breath tickling Loki's ear. 

Loki struggles, shivering, and he remembers the voice going gravelly and saying _you people, you all have needs. I'd like to see how long you can resist them._

So Loki had worn his most intricate costume, the tightest leather, too many straps and buckles, all the shiny but subtle things that the Grandmaster liked best, and he had met him in the foyer of his swanky penthouse (one of his swanky penthouses) and they had gone together to the party. 

There's a party every night, a big loud banquet full of clashing sounds and colors. Not so different from the parties on Asgard, though that was eons and eons ago now, and Loki resists the word _home_ like he's pushing at a splinter. Push hard enough and the tender lump will pop free and heal clean like it never pulsed beneath the surface with his heartbeat. The past few years wearing his father's face, he called Asgard only _conquest._

Loki fights the urge to squirm, lets another shock of magic curl out from his hands. Green smoke swirls down around his belly and legs, then back up and dissipates. Using magic or not wasn't part of the deal, but it's best not the let the Grandmaster see. 

The lips so close to his ear he can almost see the blue that will smear there if they touch. _I want you to drink and drink deeply, darling. As if you're parched and aching for water. Oh, you ever felt that? You ever felt thirst? I hear it's exciting. And then,_ the voice hums, a vibration that he feels in the shell of his ear, across his whole scalp. _I want you to wait._

He had drawn away then and crossed to the door but then stopped, turned and pointed a blue finger right at Loki, his whole face split with that alien grin.

“And you're not to spill a single drop until I say, you hear me?”

Loki has to fucking piss like a warhorse.

Speak of the Devil, the creature appears in a twirl of gold fabric, holding a curly cue glass full of pink booze high above the crowd to keep it safe. The liquid sloshes nearly to the edge of the glass and then settles, and the Grandmaster offers it out to him between his forefinger and thumb.

“This one's just lovely, you'll love it.”

Loki hesitates a second longer than he should, and the Grandmaster takes the opportunity to step a hair closer and physically press the rim of the glass to his lips.

“Mmph,” Loki says but swallows and keeps swallowing until the glass is empty. It contains far more liquid than it looks, the booze flowing out of little glass squiggles and curls, or maybe Loki is just already so full he can't imagine any more liquid fitting inside of him, not even a sip. But he swallows and lifts a hand to wipe the back of his mouth.

“There now, good boy,” the creature says. “How's that taste, nice and wet, I'd think? Lovely, I love that taste. The wet one. Always hits the spot.”

“Yes,” Loki manages. Even raising his arm sends little tremors through his body. “It's very... wet.”

The Grandmaster sweeps away into the crowd as quickly as he came, presumably to get more drinks. He's been bringing drinks all night, all manner of drinks, and only an hour in, Loki had already lost all hope of winning this contest. 

It is nine hours in now, almost first dawn, which is when these parties usually peak and then slowly dissipate, and Loki struggles.

A solid, throbbing pain is balled up inside him, settled at his midriff. It's not like any pain he's felt before, it's not white-hot or scalding or even aching really, but it comes in waves sharp and then receding, pulsing down his thighs the way he knows the liquid wants to. But Loki can hold his waters, he's not a _child._

He remembers drunk nights with Thor and the others, the din in one of the regular taverns. There were literal pissing contests. If Asgardians were proud of their ability to imbibe flagons on flagons of wine and mead, they were prouder still of their ability to stay at the table as long as they could and then when they finally took their leave, of pissing the hardest and loudest of anyone present. _But_ , he remembers, as cold icicles always pierce those memories, nothing, not even the most mundane meaningless things remaining untainted by the frostbitten sting of it, _I was never an Asgardian._

As it was, when Thor and the others drank and had their silly pissing contents, Loki slipped away last and managed to be the winner, though Thor always claimed trickery. He had rarely needed to use his magic to help contain himself and keeping his composure was not so difficult. Being made of stone and ice, even unknowingly, helped things.

It isn't helping now. _Oh_ , not now.

Loki hisses through his teeth, a slip in composure for the first time that night. He can't help but lean forward to try to quell the pulsing wave that edges through him from his gut. Leaning forward is a mistake. The straps and leather bite, and he jerks upright again, rod-straight. The wave intensifies, blooming down his thighs and up his belly and chest, and for a moment, he fears he's really about to let go. But it settles. The pain oozes away, and he does his best to stay still again.

Heaven forbid what will happen when it's time to leave. Assuming that humiliation before the entire party isn't an aspect of tonight's game, which Loki realizes is probably a foolhardy assumption. The Grandmaster loves a spectacle. 

“Darling!” It's him (who else would it be?) sweeping out of the crowd with a slender bottle of something that's frothing out big, shimmery, cartoon bubbles that hover a moment in the air before popping. “This one's a nice one, yes. It's got a nice crunch to it or-- no, a crackle?”

Loki takes the drink. Each movement is an effort, extending the hand, curling the fingers, making sure he's grasped it properly, dipping the bottle back up toward his mouth, swallowing, swallowing. It tastes sour and not as bubbly as expected, but mostly, it tastes like he can't physically put any more liquid into his body and oh _fuck_ , he's going to lose it.

He stops drinking and curls down, forgetting the last time, and the sharp dig of his clothing into his belly is once again nearly too much. The pain intensifies into a crashing wave, shooting into every nerve ending, and he whimpers despite himself, feels all that pain swell back down into his taut belly, down and down, seeking a way out, feeling as if it will burst right out of his body if he just--

“Loki!” the Grandmaster snaps, and Loki sits up like he's been hit, gathering control of himself. He squeezes his thighs together and trails a hand subtly down them, faint curls of green seeping from his fingertips. The magic only does so much, it's more a trick for his brain than for his body. The body will always have its limits, the mind is just better not knowing them. Half the battle is resisting an end to the pain, the easy out. It would be very easy to let go. “Anyway, I was talking,” the Grandmaster says. “I forget about what now, gosh, but anyway.” He looks down at Loki, and the way he's looking says he's not been fooled for a second by Loki's composure, that Loki may as well have been squeezing his hand between his legs and begging. 

“Don't you make a mess now,” he says and is off again.

Loki glances around in hopes of a distraction, though he may have passed that point by now. He wonders how many of the others around him are prisoners as well. “Prisoner” is not the word that the Grandmaster would use, but he knows the fate he would meet if he chose to deny his host. Most of the partygoers seem genuine, but he notices sometimes a nervous flick of the eyes, a smile a second too slow. There is not a single being in this room, on this whole planet, that does not feel fear to their very core in the presence of the Grandmaster. Loki has known fear deeper even than that and has learned to embrace it. Fear is what has kept him alive. 

The first few hours were uncomfortable mainly because his stomach felt bloated by the sheer volume of drinks he was delivered, then the fullness began to settle lower. Mild discomfort became a dull throb as his bladder filled, and now-- 

He can't hold back another whimper, curling his dull fingernails into his knees. His whole lower half feels fragile and hard. He moves a hand to experimentally touch his lower belly, and even the gentle press of his fingers over the solid mass in his abdomen sends little shocks of pain radiating out. His pants feel far too tight, the firm swell of his stomach barely contained by the leather. The clothes were part of the deal, and he knows the numerous buckles and snaps and clasps may prove to be a challenge when it does come time to relieve himself.

And _oh_ , even the thought of relief is almost too much.

He clenches the muscles in his thighs to ward off the worst of it and curses under his breath. His composure is slipping, and he realizes distantly that there's sweat at his temples. All he can feel is the throbbing pain, his body insistent on release, release, _release_.

Even a few drops, and the Grandmaster will know, he's certain of it. The end goal of this game is undoubtedly a total loss of control... but only at the Grandmaster's word. To surrender too early, to give in to his body's desires, even unwillingly (which is becoming more and more likely by the minute), without explicit permission could have dangerous consequences... or at least the loss of the creature's favor and any chance of surviving this place. He presses the heel of his palm between his legs now, he can't not. The liquid feels as if it's lapping right at the edge, and he knows a slip in his control would mean he would not leak so much as burst.

“Oh dear, that looks painful.” The Grandmaster is standing in front of him once again, holding yet another drink. Distracted by his desperation, Loki hadn't noticed him arrive. Another wave causes him to press his hand down harder, dragging in a sharp breath. The Grandmaster looks at him, an appraising look that seems to last far, far too long, and then, he hands the drink off to a nearby partygoer. “You're really struggling to hold it there, hmm? Come on now, I've got a room ready. No spilling!”

How he stands and crosses the room to the door, he does not know. Movement is both tortuous and makes it somewhat easier. He focuses on each step, feeling so swollen and fragile that he fears what would happen if he were jostled even a little bit. Luckily, the Grandmaster sweeps in front of him, and the crowd gives them a wide berth. Out the door, down a small hallway, and into a smaller, empty room with a curved couch in the middle and a wall of windows that look out over the cityscape going pink with first dawn. The Grandmaster snaps his fingers, and the overhead lighting dims. 

The other walls are mirrored, and as his eyes adjust and he catches sight of himself, Loki feels a flush of shame. He's squirming despite himself, knees bent inward and fists clenched at his thighs. His face is splotchy with warmth, and the blush spreads down his neck and to his chest. He looks a mess, frankly.

The Grandmaster is absolutely sunny over it, a grin splitting his face as he strides to the couch.

“Come now, Loki,” he says. “Let's see you.”

He steps forward until he's standing almost between the Grandmaster's legs. This close to him, the pain intensifies. His mind knows that relief may be near, and it takes everything he has to keep from focusing on those images of relaxing, of giving into his bladder's urgent distress signals, and allowing his clothing to dampen with-- _fuck_. 

The body can only contain so much, no matter how much the mind wills. Control is only an illusion here. Even his body's most base needs are not his own, not while the Grandmaster is still before him. The creature leans forward and hooks a finger in one of his belts.

“These sure are tight,” he says. His expression sobers, looking up into Loki's flushed face. “Show me.”

So Loki undoes each strap and buckle. He pushes the shear fabric of his shirt up and his pants low. In the mirrors, he can see himself, the full bulge of his lower belly. Waves of pain pulse closer together, quivering contractions that he resists with futile clenches of his muscles. Soon his body will take over the choice of keeping the liquid dammed up, and he will be lost. 

The Grandmaster hums.

Chilled fingers meet his taut skin and spread over the hard swell of his bladder. Their probing is gentle for now, but the touch sends a panic through his body anyway. Loki knows he will not withstand a firmer touch. He feels utterly stretched beyond his limits and then some. 

“Most of the others give up by now,” the Grandmaster says. “Your control is truly admirable.” The sultry look on his face makes it clear he knows just how close Loki is to losing that control entirely. Blue fingernails trace the distended curve, tortuously slow, and at his navel, they press just slightly down. Loki nearly buckles, pain seizing him, and it's all he can do to hold in the flood. The liquid seems to be at the very edge, the agony immense, the Grandmaster's fingers pressing just so, not so firm a touch really, but he is so _full_ , just filled completely to the brim with nowhere to go but--

A few drops escape, just a small bead of wetness, but he feels each one distinctly as it escapes. Fear grips him, and he clamps down hard, his tired muscles straining, his knees held together so tightly they ache.

“Ah, ah, what did I say? My bad though, I suppose. Just can't help myself.” The pressure on Loki's bladder eases. “I prefer you blue anyway.”

Oh. Loki barely recognizes himself in the mirrors. He has slipped into his Jotun form during his lapse in control, and his skin glows grey in the dim lighting. The Grandmaster's hands curl around his hips now, holding him still.

“Tell me,” the Grandmaster says. “What would you give for release right now? What would you do for me?”

“I--” Loki realizes he has said barely a word all night, voice raspier and more out of breath than expected. “I am no-- beggar.”

“Not even after all those pretty drinks I brought you? Some of those were very, very expensive, you know. I mean, I own the bar... and the bartender, but theoretically very pricey.” 

“Can we please not--” Loki sucks in a breath as the pain crescendos again in a loud wave. “Can we please not talk about drinks?”

“Was that begging? I think that was begging.”

“No that was not-- oh _fuck_.” His swollen bladder clenches, and a few more drops dribble out. Denying that small promise of relief is agony.

“Tsk, tsk, such a mouth on you.” The Grandmaster tightens his grip on Loki's waist, thumbs against his sharp hip bones. “You're not very good at listening.”

“I'm great at-- listening,” Loki gasps. He curls his toes down in his boots, seeking any small distraction, anything to keep it all contained, to distract himself from his body's inevitable failure. Maybe disobedience is expected, is part of the fun, or maybe it will lose him any chance at keeping the Grandmaster's interest. Loki just can't know. As much as he searches the creature's face, it remains a blank slate. The Grandmaster watches him right back through half-lidded eyes, a smug smirk curling his lips.

“Oh Loki, always thinking, always scheming,” he says and leans forward so his breath warms his belly. The sensation sends new throbs of need out from his bladder. Those lips hover close to the stretched skin, almost brushing, and to Loki's surprise, he feels a different need begin to stir between his legs. “Can't you take a break for one second and just _relax_?”

The reaction to his words is instantaneous, and he can't contain it for a second longer. He bursts, the liquid not so much seeping into his clothing as streaming. The leather takes a moment to go shiny wet, and the Grandmaster pulls aside his hands as he tries to grip himself to stem the flood.

“ _Oh_ ,” Loki moans and manages to clamp down on the flow, though he continues to leak, knowing his body will wholly give up soon. He cannot stop the escaping spurts and trickles no matter how hard he clenches every muscle. He is beyond even being able to conjure up the right magic to come to his aid. He is lost; there is no hope of forcing his body to obey his will. _You all have needs_ , the Grandmaster had said, and here he is at his limit to resist them. If this were a drunken night on Asgard, he would have given in ages ago and utterly disgraced himself, but the stakes are higher here. 

Perhaps it is not just his survival instincts that have helped him hold out thus far. Being in the Grandmaster's favor, having the sole attention of an immeasurably ancient elder being comes with a thrill that goes beyond simple will to live. He will deny it when his brain is no longer so hazed by need, but a heady thrill shoots down his spine under the Grandmaster's possessive gaze. 

“I don't remember saying you could let go,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki groans under his breath, unable to keep his hips from moving to find any kind of relief. His fingers flex at his sides in the Grandmaster's grip, and a new wave of pain rises within, his body too fatigued to resist. 

He is utterly desperate, helpless to stop the new streams of piss that escape his tortured bladder and begin to slip down his legs one after another. He calls on on his last reserves of restraint, willing the flow to slow to a dribble, but he can't slow it all the way, not now. He's too far gone, muscles too tired, brimming full of too much liquid, stretched to the bursting point beyond which an organ simply cannot be coaxed to hold more, physically will not keep it inside.

The Grandmaster releases one of his hands but swats it away when he darts to grip himself. The fingers again trace his bulging lower belly, taut skin quivering, and eyes raising to Loki's own, he spreads his fingers and bears down. The pressure is agony, holding back no longer even a question worth asking.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Loki moans as his body gives up entirely, the piss escaping him at full force now. Hot wetness streams down both legs, glistening on the dark leather and dripping in a spreading puddle onto the floor. The relief is unimaginable, nearly as good as an orgasm. His overtaxed bladder deflates under the Grandmaster's hand, pain still immense, and it seems to go on and on, the liquid surging out of him in an endless flood. 

Heavy-lidded eyes watch him, and even as the white hot relief nearly overpowers every sensation Loki wonders _is he pleased?_

Rivulets of piss still run down his legs, the wet leather shining with it. His legs feel as if they may give out, and he lets his head fall forward with a groan. Every time he feels he might be finished, a fresh stream surges anew, though gradually they lessen in strength as his bladder empties. The emptiness is a new kind of pain. He feels tender and raw, as if even a slight touch now would be too much sensory input.

The Grandmaster lets him go and leans back on the couch, appraising. Loki's heartbeat pounds in his ears, and he catches sight of himself in the mirrors, blue-skinned, pupils blown in red eyes, his belly returned to its flat expanse, his pant legs glistening wet, and a firm line of arousal standing out at his crotch, straining against the damp leather. He looks a complete wreck.

Bristling, Loki tugs down his shirt and straightens up, fighting to regain control of his breathing, which he realizes has been coming in ragged pants. 

“I assume that was to your satisfaction,” he says and grimaces at the waver in his voice. His skin shimmers back to pale white. 

“Mmmmm,” the Grandmaster hums, which is answer enough. He still has that smug look on his face, the one akin to a predator thinking up the best way to devour his prey. “Now go clean yourself up,” he says. “Though you've ruined those nice clothes I got you.” He stands, careful to toe around the puddle, sweeps across the room, and is gone.

Alone in the dark room, his wet clothes beginning to itch as they cool, Loki breathes out a sigh.

Fortunately, he has not lost the Grandmaster's favor, but his dignity? 

That he is not so sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a bible quote. Yes, I hate myself.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@limerental](http://limerental.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Though don't expect weird porn frequently, sometimes you just gotta


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